


Retirement Benefits

by Neshnyt_Jackalsson



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/pseuds/Neshnyt_Jackalsson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Atlas dead, Lackadaisy seems marked for a swift demise. Mordecai isn't keen on following it, and hopes Viktor will share his common sense. Doubtful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retirement Benefits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wiseorfool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiseorfool/gifts).



Rain-soaked clouds hung over the city, threatening to spill their contents on the well-suited gentleman emerging from his cab in the immigrant district, revolver tucked securely into his shoulder holster. The cabbie was under strict orders to wait for up to thirty minutes precisely, and had a handsome little stack of cash to reinforce this agreement. Mordecai had the cabbie’s name and address, as well as the knowledge of the man’s family, as his means of assurance. Thirty minutes was likely far more time than necessary, but he was nothing if not cautious.

Well-oiled leather loafers picked their way around the litter cluttering the curb, skirting the pool of light cast by the street lamp as he scaled the steps to the apartment door, knocking reflexively before reminding himself that there would be no doorman for tenement housing. He pushed his way in, eyes sweeping hall—coal dust in the corners, a narrow staircase sagging under the lingering weight left by thousands of footsteps, battered doors bearing faded gold-paint numbers, a bare bulb illuminating the miserable space empty of people save himself. His nose wrinkled at sour medley of scents. He didn’t understand it, why Viktor insisted in living in such deplorable conditions when he had the means to do otherwise. Atlas paid them well enough. Had paid them well enough. Necessity could dictate less than pleasant accommodations; he realized people rarely _chose_ to live in filth. But Viktor, incomprehensible Viktor, remained in his hovel.

He kept to the edges of the steps to minimize any creaks, mentally counting—sixteen, a good, even number, divides cleanly. From behind closed doors he could hear snippets of radio, filtered conversations in languages he didn’t recognized, though his ears sharpened at a snatch of German, a fragment of Yiddish. The door he stopped at offered no linguistic samples, confirming his suspicion that Viktor would be alone at this hour. His green eyes traced the peeling five on the door—five, prime and a perfectly reasonable number—before he raised a fist and knocked.

Heavy footsteps, and the door cracked open a chain-length wide enough to reveal a cautious scowl on the visible half of Viktor’s face. It fell away with the recognition of his visitor and he opened the door quickly, allowing Mordecai in as he asked in a low tone, “Somesing is vrong?”

“Not immediately, no, but there’s something I must discuss with you,” Mordecai replied, the Slovak’s accent glaring in his ears. Viktor nodded and latched the door again.

The small living room was no more furnished than the last time Mordecai had seen it: a thread-bare rug with an absolutely hideous design in blue and orange—blue and orange, _honestly_ , it’s like the weaver hadn’t even been trying—a frumpy armchair, stuffing leaking out of one arm rest; standing by the stove was a small kitchen table with two mismatched chairs, and an equally unmatched set of dishes and cups. It was enough to drive a man insane. Mordecai stiffly took a seat in the nicer of the two chairs, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the conflicting floral and geometric patterns of the chipped tea cups Viktor clinked onto the table.

Once the looming man had set the kettle on, he settled into the seat opposite Mordecai, leaning onto the table slightly. “Vhat is problem?”

For a moment Mordecai didn’t respond. He saw the flickering exhaustion in Viktor’s one good eye, heard the expectation of disaster lacing his voice like a premonition, and wondered briefly how the war-stricken tom had lasted so long in such a problem-prone occupation. The last few weeks must have been particularly vicious for him. Mordecai knew it would only get worse.

He straightened his cuffs reflexively. “I am concerned about Lackadaisy,” he began, eyes on the withering starched cuffs. “Given these recent… developments and the nature of the enterprise, I have my doubts regarding the continued success of the business.” He paused to glance at Viktor—his brow was furrowed in that concentrated expression reserved for puzzling out complex bits of English. Mordecai internally sighed and clarified, “I don’t think Lackadaisy will be in business much longer.”

Viktor frowned, gesturing dismissively, “Ve are best in whole city; everyone know Lackadaisy empire.”

Mordecai knew he had picked up the term from Atlas. “But now the emperor is dead,” he said bluntly. “And who is the heir to the throne?”

“Mitzi—you sink she is bad boss.” He stated the question like an accusation.

“On the contrary, I think she will make an excellent boss,” Mordecai countered smoothly, recalling everything he knew of the woman. “She has precisely that mix of cunning, questionable morals, and charm that will lure people close and keep them there against all common sense. Which is why I’m leaving.” There: now it was said, and it could not be undone.

Viktor blinked, pulling back slightly. “Vhat?” he asked in disbelief.

“I am leaving Lackadaisy, Viktor,” Mordecai repeated calmly. “And I suggest you do the same.”

The man’s one good eye bore into him, as if hoping to see past a charade. “You’re leaving,” he echoed. “Vhy?”

Mordecai shrugged slightly. “Prudence. With Atlas gone, I see little reason to remain—”

“Now sis is vhen Mitzi needs us,” Viktor stabbed a finger at the table. “Husband killed, and you vant to be leaving. Atlas—”

“—is _dead now_ , murdered as you correctly noted,” the bespectacled man cut him off. “There’s blood in the water, and every competitor in the city will flock to it.”

“So you run?” Viktor demanded.

“I seek greener pastures,” Mordecai corrected.

A pause as Viktor worked out the metaphor. His eye narrowed sharply. “Vhere is your loyalty?” he hissed. “I know vhy you vork for Lackadaisy—Atlas hided you, runaway. If not, maybe you vould be as like dead man—”

“ _Hid_ me, Viktor, years ago,” Mordecai interrupted, wondering who else had gotten a hold on that obnoxious detail from his past. “And don’t presume to lecture me on the value of _loyalty_ ; you’re an immigrant. You fled your own country.”

Viktor stiffened instantly and Mordecai knew he struck a nerve. “Zere vas _var_ ,” he growled. “Everysing falling apart—”

“ _Precisely_ —a ruler was assassinated; there was a war, the Austrian-Hungarian Empire _lost_ , and collapsed. Lackadaisy will be the same. You had the good sense to leave then; you should have the good sense to leave now,” Mordecai insisted, arms tight at his side. He could feel the thin bulk of the Colt press uncomfortably against his rib cage. “ _Retire_ , Viktor—what are the chances that you’ll survive two wars?”

“Good—I know vhat to be expecting,” Viktor answered.

“That’s not how this works.” Mordecai pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a looming headache. “You’re a good man, Viktor. You’re strong, and you’re brutal, and you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. Admirable traits in our line of work. But you are a soldier, and that is what will get you killed.”

The Slovak watched him and didn’t respond. Mordecai couldn’t decipher the look in his eye—at the mention of his military history, a strange neutrality blanketed his face like a cloak. Mordecai couldn’t decide if it was a guard against his words, or a barrier built to keep out the past.

He pushed on regardless. “You follow orders, hold your ground and refuse to retreat. Perfect behavior for a soldier; it makes you a reliable tool. That reliability means others can learn to read you, especially if they can read the one giving you orders—”

“You are not making sense,” Viktor snapped, frustration creeping through the mask. “Speak _proper_ ; I am not understanding—”

“You are too important to survive this war untouched; retire or die,” Mordecai said sharply. “You don’t owe Mitzi anything—”

“I am not going novhere!” Viktor snarled.

Mordecai scowled, gaze flicking to the mismatched tea cups as the kettle began a high, piercing whistle. He mentally smoothed his composure into something more respectable. “I would hate to see us at odds,” he managed evenly.

“Zen stay out from my vay,” Viktor retorted, shoving back from the table and turning to snap the stove off. The kettle quieted instantly.

When Viktor turned back, he had less than a second to register that Mordecai was standing, revolver steadied and angled downwards. Then Mordecai squeezed the trigger, once, twice, and on the third time Viktor crumpled to the ground, howling as he clutched his knee.

No chance of getting the second knee now. The asymmetry _demanded_ correction, but he couldn't spare the time. And getting that close to Viktor? No, there was nothing for it. Mordecai tucked the gun away as Viktor screamed Slovak at him, face twisted up in agony and rage as blood leaked out passed his clenched fingers.

“You should retire, Viktor,” Mordecai said loudly over the cursing. “It would be a pity for anything worse to befall you.”

“ _Choď_ _do_ _riti_ _,_ _ty_ _hovno_ _-_ _jesť_ _hajzel_ _!_ _Ja_ _ťa_ _zabijem_ _!_ _Ja—_ ”

Mordecai tipped his hat and left without a word, closing the door solidly behind him.

There were frantic whispers from within a few of the other apartments as Mordecai fled quickly into the rain outside. The cab was thankfully still there; he slid into the back seat and saw the driver white-knukling the steering wheel.

“The Little Daisy café, please,” he ordered calmly.

“Yessir,” the man replied immediately, and took off with a screech of tires.

Mordecai wasn’t entirely sure how he expected that meeting to go. He knew Viktor was a stubborn mule with unfortunate tendencies towards being a ‘good person’, present line of work notwithstanding. There should be no surprise whatsoever at his refusal to leave Lackadaisy. And yet it was somewhat… disheartening. Mordecai hoped his parting gift might encourage the Slovak to reconsider, but he doubted it. At the very least, it should keep the other man out of Mordecai’s direct line of fire, in the almost inevitable situation where his particular set of skills were brought to bear against his soon to be former employer. Viktor was good at his job, and Mordecai liked to minimize risk. It would be ideal if that did not require attempting to dispose of a body twice his size.

They came to a stop at the café’s entrance. Mordecai checked his revolver, mentally debated with himself for a moment, then popped two of the remaining three bullets out of the barrel before positioning the last full chamber five shots away from being actually fired. It would buy him time, if things turned sour. He pocketed the other bullets and returned the gun to its holster before stepping out of the cab.

“Wait,” he instructed. The cabbie nodded with the resigned expression of a man questioning why he deserved his lot in life, and Mordecai shut the door.

The café was dark already, but downstairs would be just warming up for the night. He cut around to the back entrance and flashed his pin, sending word along that he needed to speak with Mitzi regarding urgent business. The peephole clacked shut immediately, and Mordecai knew he wouldn’t have to wait long—one of the benefits to being Atlas’s “golden boy”. He lingered under the overhang, berating himself for forgetting to bring an umbrella despite having heard the weather report that morning, eyes crawling over the brick pattern on the opposite wall, until he heard the lock turn.

Mitzi emerged, even less dressed for the weather than he was. “What is it?” she tottered, and Mordecai realized she must be several drinks into the evening already.

He nodded towards the street. “In the light; I hate alleyways.” Unless he was the one setting up the ambush. He had no reason to think Mitzi knew what was about to happen, but he didn’t live this long by being careless.

Mitzi followed, glancing at the cab before shifting her attention back to the triggerman. “Out in the rain, darling? You’ll catch your death,” she smiled sadly.

He wasn’t the one wearing a sheer shawl. Wordlessly, he held out the pistol in offering.

She stared, “What’s this?” she asked slowly, cautiously, eyes creeping back up to his.

“My resignation,” he answered flatly.

Surprise and hurt flashed across her features. “Oh…”

Mordecai waited, the rain drummed a measured staccato around them. Mitzi opened her mouth, hesitated, closed it. He imagined he could guess the thoughts flitting through her head— _I can still afford you, you don’t need to leave_. Or, _no, Mordecai, not now—not with everything that’s happened. Give me a year, six months even, then you can go_. Maybe even, _listen, about Atlas—_

“It’s nothing personal,” he broke the silence, and even to his ears that sounded pathetic. It was never personal with him; some—Viktor, likely—thought that was half the problem.

Mitzi nodded mutely and reached out, fingers wrapping delicately around the Colt. Mordecai released it to her, then unpinned the tiny club from his lapel. She accepted that too without a sound.

“Goodbye, Mitzi,” he said.

“Goodbye, Mordecai.” Her voice wobbled, and Mordecai decided he needed to leave, now. He turned back to the cab, pleased to see her wavy reflection in the car windows remained still, pistol hanging loosely in her hand. He paused with the door open, one foot in the cab.

“Also,” he added, loud enough to carry over the rain. “You should call a doctor for Viktor. He’s injured.”

He ducked into the car and shut the door, looking back to see Mitzi turn heel and run for the back entrance. His history of understatement probably translated that sentence to “Viktor is dying”. But unless Viktor abruptly lacked the intelligence to staunch the blood flow, he was likely still alive.

“My parting gift to you, Mitzi,” he murmured. True caution demanded Viktor dead.

He took once last look at the daisy emblem on café windows, shook off some of the water, and ordered the cab home. As he adjusted his tie, he couldn’t help but think that, all things considered, it had been a very productive night. No one was hurt.

Well, no one who counts.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first submission to Yuletide. I hope to continue exploring Viktor and Mordecai's encounters and look forward to having a strong grasp of their voices.


End file.
